Page 61 of Hunted to the Altar
“No,” I said firmly, meeting her glare head-on. “But it’ll make your life easier. Whether you accept it as an apology or not is up to you.”
Her lip curled, a bitter laugh escaping her. “An apology? That’s rich, coming from you.”
I stepped closer, placing the wheelchair beside the bed. She stiffened but didn’t move. “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” I said, my voice softer now. “I’m asking you to use it. That’s all.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed and shifted her weight forward, allowing me to help her into the chair. The tension in her body was palpable, but she didn’t resist. I adjusted the footrests carefully, ensuring she was comfortable.
“I’ll use it,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the floor. “But don’t think for a second that means I forgive you.”
I nodded, stepping back. Her words stung, but I didn’t let it show. This wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about keeping her alive, whether she hated me for it or not.
As I turned to leave, her voice stopped me. “Why are you doing this, Samuel? Why pretend to care?”
I paused in the doorway, my hand on the frame. “Because I do care,” I said simply. “More than you’ll ever understand.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Nina
The soft humof the wheels on the smooth penthouse floor was the only sound in the vast, suffocating silence. I maneuvered myself toward the balcony, the glow of the city lights calling to me like a distant refuge. The wheelchair creaked faintly as I stopped short of the glass doors, my breath catching as I realized I wasn’t alone.
Marcello sat in the shadowed corner of the room, his broad frame hunched and still. He leaned heavily on his cane, the dim light catching the discolored scar that marked his forehead like a beacon. The skin was taut, fresh scars that marred his once-pristine appearance were a brutal reminder of Samuel’s capacity for violence—and his twisted sense of justice.
He didn’t speak.
I stopped a few feet away, gripping the wheels of my chair tightly. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. My emotions had been bubbling all evening,and seeing him sitting there, a living reminder of Samuel’s cruelty, brought them dangerously close to spilling over.
Marcello didn’t answer, of course. He hasn’t been the same since he’d been punished. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. But the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers tightened around the handle of his cane, spoke volumes. He wasn’t here for comfort. He was here because, like me, he had nowhere else to go.
Maybe all the screaming broke his vocal chords.
"You hate him, too, don’t you?" I demanded, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "Samuel…he’s destroyed both of us. And yet we’re still here. Why? Why do we stay?"
Marcello’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped his cane lightly against the floor. The sound was soft but deliberate, like he was signaling something I couldn’t fully grasp. I watched him, searching for answers in his scarred face, in the way he held himself. There was a quiet strength to him, a resilience I envied and resented in equal measure.
"You think I’m weak," I said bitterly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "You think I should stop crying and start fighting, don’t you? Well, I can’t. I don’t know how."
His gaze softened slightly, and he leaned forward, his fingers curling and uncurling around the cane’s handle. He pointed toward me, then toward himself, and finally toward the door. The message was simple: We were both trapped here, both victims of Samuel’s obsession and control. But while he had resigned himself to this reality, I wasn’t ready to do the same.
"You’ve accepted it," I accused, my voice rising. "You’ve let him win. But I can’t—I won’t."
Marcello’s lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but it came out as a grimace. He tapped his cane again, more forcefully this time, and pointed to me, his eyes blazing with intensity. Then he touched his chest, his hand clenching into a fist.The meaning hit me like a punch to the gut: Strength wasn’t about fighting Samuel. It was about surviving him.
I turned away, my chest heaving. The city lights blurred as tears filled my eyes. "Surviving isn’t enough," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "I want more than that. I want…freedom."
Marcello didn’t respond, but his presence remained heavy, grounding me even as my emotions threatened to spiral out of control. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until I couldn’t take it anymore.
"Do you think he’ll ever let me go?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Marcello’s expression hardened, and he shook his head slowly, deliberately. The motion was a knife to my already bleeding heart. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to hold myself together. The truth was unbearable, but it was a truth I couldn’t ignore.
The tension between us hung like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. Marcello finally broke the silence with a slow, deliberate gesture—pointing at his cane, then the scar that marred his face. His meaning was clear: Survival was all that mattered now. Whether or not we wanted it, Samuel’s world was ours, too.
The following morning,the weight of Marcello’s silent wisdom lingered in my mind as I wheeled myself into the dining room. Samuel was already there, seated at the head of the table with a cup of coffee in hand. His eyes snapped to me the moment I entered, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"You’re up early," he remarked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity.
I didn’t answer immediately, instead maneuvering myself to the opposite end of the table. The distance felt necessary, ashield against the storm that always seemed to accompany his presence.
